


Oscuridad

by myfivemeters



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Canon Universe, M/M, Nightmares, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 05:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2954648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myfivemeters/pseuds/myfivemeters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wasn't afraid of the dark-on the contrary, he got along well with the darkness. No, it was the nightmares that sprung when he closed his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oscuridad

The Spanish man hated the night. It wasn't that he was afraid of the dark—on the contrary, he got along well with the darkness.

 

No, it was because of the nightmares that sprung up when he closed his eyes.

 

On this night, the first one started out peaceful. He looked out on the sea from the bow of the ship. The ocean was calm, curving when he told it to. But he felt swords piercing his back, and he turned around to see his shipmates pushing him over. He hit the water with a crash, and felt it seize him with a bitter cold. It filtered into his lungs and stung his eyes with the salt; no matter how hard he gagged to get it out he drowned further and further.

 

The next, he was standing in front of a woman with short wavy hair. She looked at him with horror. He looked down and saw the stolen gold and the royal robes that mocked the nations he killed. Another man with a scar on his forehead looked at him with disgust. They began to push at him. He stepped backwards until he fell into a pit full of tar that made it so he couldn't move; he watched as they laughed at him. The tar encased him, and soon only his head was showing. Then the tar turned into millions of tiny little ants that crawled into every pore of his body and filled his mouth up.

 

He felt peace for a short amount of time, because the next dream had a little boy with hazel eyes wiping at his face. He looked down at his clothes—he was still wearing the gold and the garments, but they were splattered with blood. The boy cupped his face with his hand and planted a small kiss on his forehead before bringing him to a bed. He laid down and closed his eyes, and the next nightmare began.

 

He was on a ship again, but this time he was in the captain's quarters surrounded by beautiful women, a goblet of wine in his hands. The women looked at him languidly, before their faces turned ghoulish and they began to scratch at his body, flaying his skin off. The Spaniard threw his head back in agony. It felt like he was on fire; he looked down again and saw flames licking at his bloody skin. He was tied to a wooden post, the faces of the empires he murdered chanting for his death. At the front of the crowd was the boy, now a teenager, screaming for his execution. _You left me alone,_ he says. _You left me alone to die._

 

The next he was standing in front of a mirror. His clothes were torn and blood covered his hands. What scared him the most, though, was his eyes. They looked deranged. They screamed for power, for blood, for the precious land and gold.  _I want more,_ they whispered.

 

_I want it all._

 

When he finally wakes, it is morning and he is screaming. He races into the bathroom and takes a shower, scrubbing until his skin turns raw because he's trying, trying to get the tar and the ants off of his skin. He steps out of the shower and stares at his red body—but all he sees is the stolen gold and now he's ripping at his throat. He starts to bleed, though, and he stops; but really only because he's decided to rip at his hair.

 

He calms down slightly, but the most chilling thing he sees is his eyes. The hold the same feral look like they did in his dreams, the lust for power seeping out of his green irises. He stares until he feels he will go mad and suddenly, he's trying to gouge them out with his thumbs. The bathroom door bursts open before he can do any real damage. The boy from his dreams, now grown up, pulls his hands away gently and whispers comforting words to calm the psychotic man before him. The Spaniard hugs his Italian lover and screams that he didn't mean to do it, he'd take it back if he had the chance. His lover nods and runs his hands through his damp locks. He stands and grabs bandages, as if this were a daily occurrence—which it is—and cleans the blood that is starting to dry on the deranged man's torso.

 

He's whispering to his lover now, saying things like _I didn't mean to leave you, I'm so sorry,_ and he dissolves into racking sobs that shake this once mighty conqueror's upper body.

 

_It's okay, It's okay,_ the Italian whispers.  _You're with me now._

 

After minutes of silence the crazed man has seemed to calm down. _You haven't called me a name yet today,_ he remarks with a shaky voice. _That's gotta be a new record._

 

The other personification lets a small smile make its way onto his face. _Don't do things like this again, asshole. You really worried me._

 

Despite the graveness the Italian delivered, he laughs. _I need to put some clothes on._ He stands up slowly, so as not to fall or even get dizzy and throw up.

 

_Don't hurt yourself,_ he calls after the Spaniard.

 

A laugh is heard.  _You do care, Lovi!_

 

Shortly after, screams of hysteria are heard and he—Lovi, as the Spaniard calls him—rushes out of the bathroom to calm him down. The object of his panic is just a normal shirt; but the Italian knows better. In the once-conquistador's mind, it's the blood spattered robes he tore from the chief's fallen body. He steps forward and takes the shirt out of his hands. _You're okay. You're with me,_ he whispers. _You're with me._

 

The day goes on and slowly but surely, the Spaniard calms down and returns to his normal self. But the evening comes and he is begging his lover to stay, _just this once, please!_ He can see the conflict within the Italian's eyes and knows he's close to getting what he wants; he's a conquistador at heart, after all, and he _always_ gets what he wants. _I can't go through that again,_ he whispers. _It's hell._

 

But as much as he begs, his lover leaves anyways, and night falls. At first, he paces, willing the tiredness to leave his drooping eyes. He watches the moon rise and pierce the unforgiving darkness outside. He wonders when he became so weak and dependent to be sane. He thinks and thinks about what happened to the strong man he use to be. Soon his eyes close, though, leaving his body to do the only thing it can. The Spaniard slowly drifts into sleep.

 

And the night begins again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yo. Just a short little drabble that I've had saved on my computer for a while. It's probably really bad since it's so old but I've had this idea for a while and wanted to post it. I've had the headcanon that Spain is literally insane because of what he did as a conqueror for a while, but I just hadn't made a fic for it yet. So yeah. Please review and tell me what you think!


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